


Marco Bodt Is The Worst Burglar In History

by Maxiell



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Bodt, Family Issues, M/M, Mild Dom/sub undertones, Moral Dilemmas, POV Jean Kirstein, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Politics, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maxiell/pseuds/Maxiell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s scared, I can feel his body trembling, but he doesn’t call for help or try to protect himself. The moron’s even taken his mask off along with his gloves, and I can see a thousand freckles on his cheeks and nose; not only has he got the most distinguishable face imaginable, but he’s also leaving his fingerprints every-fucking-where.</p>
<p>I may be lying on my back, but I’m in control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Ok.  
> So I started writing this as stress relief porn, and it became this silly, half-finished story that I didn’t know what to do with.  
> And then I found out about [Marco Bodtom Week](%E2%80%9Dbottombodtbrigade.tumblr.com/%E2%80%9D) , realised the written chapters sort of applied to the prompts, and voila! A direction for the end of this fic was created.
> 
> Unfortunately, Day 1 and Day 2 prompts (Keep It Quiet and In The Kitchen, respectively) occurred in reverse order in this story, so I’m using some creative license and posting both chapters today (it is still the 6th somewhere, right??). All the other prompts and chapters are corresponding, and I’m going to try and finish them in time for each day. I did only just find out about [Marco Bodtom Week](%E2%80%9Dbottombodtbrigade.tumblr.com/%E2%80%9D) so it might be a bit of a stretch, but I’ll finish it pretty soon afterwards if I don’t manage it.
> 
> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, and concrit are always greatly appreciated!  
> I hope you enjoy.

The room is dark save the flashes of washed out colours coming from the old sitcom that’s failing spectacularly at lifting my mood. I hadn’t really expected it to, given the festering funk I’ve been in since moving back home, but a couple of laughs would have been nice. As it is, I’ve been staring at this screen for an hour, slouched into the cushions, wishing I had the energy move and rueing the fact there’s enough still in me to be constantly aware of the quiet of the house, to remember the look on Mom’s face as I ‘fought’ for the right to stay at home and not be forced into going to that stuffy gala full of stuffy old men.

We don’t actually have fights in this house. We work with disapproving frowns and disappointed words, carefully stepping over thin and taut wires, and letting everything else out in particular sounding breaths.

Sometimes I want to rage. Sometimes I want to hold and be held. Mostly, I sit. Here in the deserted living room; upstairs on my bed; on the unforgiving wood at quite dining table. I sit.

And it’s enough for me.

The snappy theme tune is suddenly grating, and finally I manage to switch the entire thing off. Getting up is harder, but I can only stand the dark and quiet for so long.

As I walk down the corridor, I trail my hand along the wall underneath all the portraits I watch pass me, each one an esteemed member of a family that is not my own. I can spot and recognise familiar features that I don’t have, and it astonishes me that someone born hundreds of years ago can be seen in the man who raised me.

Paintings of ancestors turn into photographs of family when I begin to climb the stairs, and I find myself pausing on every other step, studying the pictures that are such a constant in my life, that I can’t remember that last time I bothered to look at them. I’ve almost forgotten what’s in them.

There are a few photos of grandparents, of aunties and uncles, and precious baby cousins. There are even fewer pictures of family friends. But the majority are of _our_ family, the tiny unit of three. There’re pictures of their wedding and their life before me – their love for each other shining through each one, regardless of what they are doing, or how they’re posing. It sometimes feels odd to look at them, but there is one that has always been my favourite. It sits exactly halfway up the stairs and has that peculiar orangey-brown tint to it that only comes with photographs taken in the seventies. It’s a close-up of them sitting in a park, wrapped up in thousands of layers, her sitting in his lap, and they are laughing together, smiling at each other like they can see their future in each other and it is filled with all the love they feel in that moment. They have always been happy together, as far as I know. They’re still in love. But I’ve never seen them look like that. I’ve never seen _anyone_ look like that, and I can’t help but smile every time I notice that old photo.

There are plenty pictures of me as child on this stretch of wall, looking just as nervous as I remember feeling, but more happy than I remember being. There’s even one of me as a toddler, chubby beyond all comprehension – it’s the only one the carer who took me in could take from my original home. I’d been told it used to be next to my mother’s side of the bed.

There are more pictures of me as a teenager than I’m happy with, and more than are strictly necessary. Short and stubby all the way to gangly, all adorned with pimples and uncontrollable hair. But most of the pictures are of all three of us together, rarities framed and hung where everyone can see, as proof that there were instances in which we were together, where we _saw_ each other, because it’s getting easier and easier to forget them.

When I stop at the top of the stairs, I linger on the last photo, taken some time in my pre-pubescent years. I look at the parents that chose me and promised me love, but instead gave me as many distracting riches as their subconscious guilt could persuade them to buy. I was wanted, I am needed, and I am loved; I know all this, but I don’t feel it.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt it, I’m not even sure if I ever did anymore. And coming home again, after years of us happily pretending the distance between us was because of the physical divide, has shone an unpleasant light on how extraneous I feel.

Dad wanted me to go tonight, to show the world – well, the press and his fellow candidates, which is the world to my dad – a united family, humble in their love if not in their living, and I should’ve gone, I know that. It’s the least I could do, and it’s not exactly asking much, but the last thing I want to do is stand among those self-obsessed patronisers, listening to their fake enthusiasm for helping the common people as they sip champagne.

The last thing I want to do is stand as a family, be asked questions about family, when I’m struggling to find my place in it again.

These aren’t exactly the thoughts I wanted to go to bed with, and I look to my laptop as I enter my room, tempted to try taking my mind off it all. But it’ll probably work out the same way TV did. Maybe I’m just having a particularly bum-day, maybe if I sleep tomorrow will be easier, more productive. Maybe I should just go to bed.

I’m not so weary I don’t notice the way I’m consoling myself in the same way Mum has always fruitless done.

I refuse to dwell on it though; it brings up questions of authenticity and habit that I don’t like facing.

* * *

 

The first thing I notice is that it’s not morning yet.

It didn’t take me too long to get to sleep, but that doesn’t make me any less irritable about being woken prematurely. I’m tempted to go downstairs and snap at them – my mood unsurprisingly as awful as it was yesterday, with the added bonus of disturbed sleep – and maybe I would’ve, had I still been that bratty, fully settled teenager I once was.

But I don’t have the will; the energy or rapport. Grumbling to myself makes me feel better anyway, so I shift to my side, cursing them out in my mind as I absently wait for Mom’s hushed call to me, or their muffled footsteps to come up the stairs.

Neither come.

And the unusual pause in time has my senses waking up more than I want them to, firing unnecessary agitation to my limbs and skin, making me all too uncomfortable to fall back to sleep.

There’s a bang, and a sudden lack of all familiarity, and I bolt upright, breath panicked and heavy, and what the fuck is going on.

It’s stupid to be concerned. We’ve got the best security money can buy and we’ve never had trouble before in all the years we’ve lived here. Besides, only an idiot would try to rob from people who can afford the best of the best to track them down.

But when you’ve watched as many soap-operas and heist-films as I have, seeds get planted, ridiculous expectations are created, and suddenly the slightest thing is the biggest drama.

But I know the score, even if it’s a struggle to remind myself through my freaked-out panting and the buzzing in my ears as they strain to hear the next out of place sound.

There isn’t one. None familiar or foreign, and that isn’t reassuring in the slightest .

I get up. I tell myself I need to look outside, check the driveway for my parents' car and see if there’s any glow on the hedges to indicate whether there are any light on in the rooms below.

I slowly pull back the curtain, part of me feeling silly for doing so, and part of me scared shitless of what I’ll see on the other side.

It’s dark. The moon is still high enough to show an empty driveway, but there’s no sign of reflected artificial light.

I need to calm down. I need to _think_.

So it’s still fairly early in the night; I couldn’t have been asleep too long. And there’s no sign of life either inside or outside the house. So it’s not my parents.

Maybe it’s not anything. One bang is nothing – maybe I left a dish on the edge of the kitchen counter, or maybe I knocked one of the portraits earlier without noticing. Except, it must have been two bangs, because something woke me up; it’s too coincidental for me to rouse just in time to freak myself out.

And I feel it; something is _off_. Logically I know the tingling of skin and raised hair is mostly psychosomatic - poor little Jean home alone in a big, now unfamiliar house - but I can’t fight the instincts telling me something is wrong.

Maybe it is nothing, maybe I am imagining shit, but lying in bed, unable to sleep for the too quick breathing and blood pounding in my ears isn’t going to do me any good.

And I’m a fucking adult, goddamn it. I’m capable of going downstairs and dealing with whatever it is.

How many things could it be really? Could be some kind of animal, may be one of the asshole cats down the street that I’m always having to half-kill myself trying to swerve. But I can’t help thinking the worst, and have pretty much convinced myself it’s a burglar down there, so I shove my phone in my pocket and, as quietly as I can, pull the bottom draw of my nightstand out, digging around ‘til my fingers curl around my Swiss Army knife.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve used this thing, but it’s all I’ve got, and if I’m careful, it’ll do as much as I need it to. So long as I can keep the shaking in my hands down.

I feel like an idiot, working myself up so much. I take a couple of deep breaths, which becomes redundant the second I start tiptoeing to my door and instantly hold my breath, straining to hear any noises from outside and fearing any I make.

It’s all clear as I reach for the handle, turning it painfully slowly and putting my palm flat against the wood as if that single touch will stop the hinges from creaking. Maybe it’s mind over matter, or through sheer fucking will, but the door doesn’t even squeak as I pull it open and lightly tread through, not bothering to shut it behind me.

The landing carpet is a dated hideosity that I’ve complained about many a time, but I’m grateful for it now as it muffles my careful – and probably quite hilarious – steps so well I can’t even hear them; though it make me all the more conscious of my creaking joints, not used to moving in this way, and certainly not used to the tension keeping my muscles taught and aware.

I pause at the top of the stairs, peering over the banister and desperately trying to hear any clue as to what – if anything – awaits me at the bottom. The hall below is dark and silent, but as I’ve taken the first couple of wincing steps down, there’s the faintest sound of movement, so quiet I can’t make out whether it was a scrape or thud or a whisper, but it has my heart racing, thudding painfully against my tight chest.

I keep moving, hand gripping the knife too tight, and I can barely breathe as I descend, my weak knees complaining even louder and wide eyes trained on the darkness to my right; I swear that’s where the noise came from. They’re either in the kitchen or the parlour then, whatever it is. And it’s only now, halfway down the stairs that it occurs to me that it might not be a thief at all, and instead I’m walking into the trap of a deranged murderer.

Christ on a stick, what the fuck am I doing?!

Another soft noise has me jumping out of my skin – would murders be this quiet? For all I know he could fucking waiting in the corridor purposefully making those unassuming noises, trying to lure me in.

And here I am, fucking Jean Kirschtein, dipshit of the year walking straight to him with a measly knife that can pop open a bottle of wine pretty good.

But is turning back really going to help? If it is a crazed murderer, thirsty for blood and gore, is hiding upstairs going to do me any good? At least this way I can make a run for it out the kitchen door.

Fuck, I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot, but I keep going anyway, and it’s probably not a killer, and there’s probably no one there, but I really need to get out of this fucking house now or find a goddamn, _faceable_ answer.

Please fuck, let it be one of those shitty cats. Or a mouse or something. I’d take a rat at this point. I’d take a whole infestation of them.

Just so long as it’s not a human.

…or a ghost. Just putting it out there, ‘cause it’d be just my luck to jinx myself with something like that. Christ, I wouldn’t be able to deal with that. Please don’t be ghost, _please_ don’t be a fucking ghost.

As if my heart wasn’t pounding enough, it’s fucking thrashing now as I walk down the short corridor that leads to the kitchen, sitting just before the room leads into the parlour; whichever room _it’s_ in, I should be able to get a good look at it from here.

Another couple of calming breaths, and I stop at the archway, leaning against the wall and trying to pick anything out in the dark. I can make out the familiar shapes of permanent fixtures – probably ‘cause I know to expect them – but nothing else; there isn’t the faintest hint of light, or any sign of life, supernatural or otherwise.

But the longer I stand there, the more I notice _noise_.

It soft, much softer than the other three instances, so I still can’t make out what is actually happening. I guess it sounds like things are being moved around, but I can’t be sure. What I do know though, is that it’s coming from the right, the kitchen. I have to peek ‘round to figure anything else out, but I really don’t want to fucking do that. There could be anything waiting for me there; a crazed killer, a loaded gun, a floating head waiting just round the corner.

Please don’t be ghost. Please don’t be ghost.

It’s burglars.

_Thank. Fuck_.

My pulse spikes all the same seeing them – there’s two of them, one pretty tall and one comically short – but my short trip down convinced me it could’ve been worse. I knew it though, I knew it was thieves right from the start.

One of these days I’m going to learn to trust my instincts, and watching them, all cloaked in black, putting various objects in their bags, and very carefully using their torches, I figure now’s a good a time as any.

The small one moves around with an ease and precision that speaks of experience. He’s quick and quiet, and picks up the most valuable items as he strolls through the room, barely having to look as he passes through. The larger one on the other hand is the epitome of hesitance. He’s silent and graceful as he gets around the room, but his body is tense, and he’s very careful about what he takes. He’s slow and scared, and he’s the target to be aiming for.

If I want to get our stuff back, I’ve got make sure I get between them and the quickest exist. I’ve also got to get between _them_ with enough space to grab the big guy before the pipsqueak has a chance to retaliate. I push myself flat against the wall as Shorty walks by and wait until he’s got the draws pulled out of the armour before risking a check on his unnerved friend. He’s close, close enough for me to have the element of surprise and grab him, and his weapon is dangling uselessly by his side.

With quick glance at Little, I silently spring ‘round the corner to take Large.

Except my heart crashes to a stop, along with my body, when I see he’s already spotted me. Well. Shit.

I’m panicking, I know I’m already panicking because my hands are shaking and my heart has restarted with a vengeance, beating so hard and quickly I can barely hear anything else. I can’t move, even though I need to ‘cause Big Guy’s going to call his buddy and I’m stuck between the two of them, and _this is why you call the police you fucking moron!_

I can’t tear my eyes away from the wide, shocked, brown ones staring at me like he’s never seen another human before. Those eyes are the only thing I can see of him, and I make sure to take them in, every fine detail I can possibly see, in case I survive this. They will fucking pay.

In all my petrified, obsessive thoughts, it takes me a while to realise he hasn’t said anything. He’s still staring at me, bat raised and aimed, but he’s silent, and Shorty’s still ransacking the room next door.

A moment of clarity. My eyes narrow. And then there’s a spark of bravery that I’m unfamiliar with that shoots through my nerves and moves my body.

I run to him, as quickly and quietly as I can, and all I notice before I reach him is that his eyes widen further and he takes a tiny step back. I don’t really know what I’m meant to be doing, but instinct has me grabbing his black jumper and yanking him towards me and my pointed knife.

The idiot drops his weapon without even trying.

And then there is an unbelievable pain, white-hot _agony_ across my shoulder and neck, shooting down my entire back as I scream and slam to the floor. It hurts so bad that at first I don’t even feel cracking my head on the tile; it takes a moment for the echoing sound of it to register in my ears, and even longer for the pain to hit. When it does, I can’t move for it; can’t whimper, can’t cry. I just lie there and let it rack my body in awful internal pulses; huge waves of searing hurt, one after the other.

“Holy shit!” I can barely hear his cry, but it sinks in somewhere between the crashing waves.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Is hissed, and by the softness and higher pitch, I can only assume it’s the little guy. “Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you use your fucking bat? He could have killed you!”

“You said there wouldn’t be anyone home, Annie!” The big guy isn’t taking the same precautions in trying to be quiet; my throbbing head wishes he fucking would. “You-you said we wouldn’t need them! You told me no one would get hurt!” Only then does it register that the shortass who took me out with one hit is a fucking _woman_!

“Shut the fuck up!” She growls, and I can vaguely hear the thump of someone being hit through clothes. “We still need to be quiet. And what did I say about using fucking names!”

Please, please brain; remember the name Annie, even if that fall knocked everything else out of you.

“Sorry,” looks like some sense finally sunk in. “But you hit him too hard Ann-ah, um. He really smacked his head. We need to make sure he’s ok.”

A thought materialises in my aching mind. A sudden adrenaline makes it clearer and rise above the pain still shooting through my entire body.

“Like fuck we do. I don’t think we were loud enough to reach the other houses, but we need to hurry this shit up. That knock wasn’t hard enough to keep him down long. Let’s just grab what we can from the next room and get the fuck outta here.”

I steady myself as I hear light footsteps stroll past me.

“B-but he’s bleeding! Oh god, he’s bleeding! What if he dies?”

I tighten the grip around my forgotten knife as heavy footfalls rush towards me.

“He’s not gonna-”

“We need to make sure he’s ok!” There’re a few indistinct sounds between Big Guy stopping next to me, and crouching down and gently placing his bare hands on my neck. I try to take an unnoticeable, steadying breath as he whispers softly, “H-hey-”

My eyes snap open and once more I snatch his jumper and pull him close, successfully pressing the knife against his neck this time. His eyes are huge and frightened, only a couple of inches away from mine as the yanks had forced him place his hands on either side of my head. He’s scared, I can feel his body trembling, but he doesn’t call for help or try to protect himself, again. The moron’s even taken his mask off along with his gloves, and I can see a thousand freckles on his cheeks and nose; not only has he got the most distinguishable face imaginable, but he’s also leaving his fingerprints every-fucking-where. I may be lying on my back, but I’m in control.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.” He gulps so harshly that he actually causes the knife to draw blood himself. I wonder if it’s the weapon he’s scared of or me; if my eyes are as blazing and hate filled as they feel.

I hear a noise behind me, and tilt my head to see _Annie_ standing unsure, and watching the scene with wide eyes, weapon and half-full bag both clutched tightly in her hands.

“You too.” I spit at her, making sure the knife is pressed firmly against the guy’s neck whilst I’ve got my eyes directed elsewhere. Not that I think this idiot is capable of actually doing anything. “Put that shit down and stand by the wall. You can try to be as smart and quick as you like; my hands’re gonna be faster and you know it.”

She stares for a second longer, before her fists clench and she starts to move. Except, she not doing what she’s told, but instead bolts for the door, grabbing Big Guy’s dropped gear on the way, and leaving him for dead.

We’re stunned into silence for a while. Neither of us try to move.

“Y-you can’t kill me.” He eventually stutters, looking down at me with frightened eyes and finding it more and more difficult to swallow. I try to stare up at him with as neutral an expression as I can manage; I still can’t believe she abandoned him like that. “Y-you hear about it all th-the time. Guy goes to jail f-for attacking a guy r-robbing him. You can’t kill me.”

“No,” my voice is surprisingly steady, and appropriately threatening. “But with the physical damage I’m sporting, I’ve got a strong case for self-defence, and I can _hurt_ you.”

He lets out a fearful squeak, and I take the opportunity to use all the adrenaline and strength I have left in me to flip us over and straddle his chest, pinning his arms underneath my shins and pressing knife against his throat again.

I hadn’t thought his eyes could get any wider. I was wrong.

I watch him as I fumble to get the mobile out of my back pocket, noticing how his eyes keep darting to the left. The thrill of the fight, the thrill of being in control has set off some of the other primal responses, and as I take my phone out, I can’t help but take in the way he looks beneath me, how attractive he actually is. It makes my rushing blood sing, but I’m not an animal, I’ve evolved beyond some instincts, and I dial the emergencies without a pause.

“Hi,” I begin calmly, keeping my eyes fixed with his. “My house has just been broken into and robbed,” he still looks scared, but there’s a resigned sadness there now too. “So I need the police to come to house number 6, Stohess Drive, Upper Trost.”

As I listen to the woman confirming the location, the man beneath me gulps again and whispers up to me.

“And an ambulance.”

“What?” I frown down at him.

“Your head’s bleeding.” He continues to whisper, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him gesture at my head with his pinned hand. “You need an ambulance as well. You really need to get checked out.”

I’m surprised into silence for a moment before I manage to stutter out, “A-and an ambulance too. I-I confronted one of them and hit my head.” I’m so confused by the sigh of relief Big Guy lets out, that I barely hear the rest of the conversation on the phone. But I managed to decline the need for her to stay on the line and hang up. “They’ll be here soon.” I mumble, still in a state of _baffled_. What kind of robber makes sure you get medical attention after you get them arrested?

“I’m sorry, by the way.” He says, and I don’t think I’m capable of anything other than listening and watching him. “I-I don’t like stealing from people, but you were meant to be out, and… and if I _ever_ thought someone was going to get hurt, I’d never let Annie-oh! Um, well, I wouldn’t have let anyone come here. We really thought you’d all be out.”

There’s an embarrassed flush on his face as he dropped his partner in crime in it again, and I can’t for the life of me think why he cares when she ran out on him when he was at knife point and clearly out of his depth. And it’s stupid, but I believe every word he says. He’d been so uncomfortable the whole time, that I truly believe that he doesn’t like stealing. It’s then that I’m reminded of the stories from the orphanage; of the older children sneaking bread from the bakers, and nicking jewellery and wallets from passers-by and pawning what they could. I didn’t remember a lot about being in care, but what I do isn’t pleasant. And I knew, even back then, that the older a kid gets, the less people want them. Those kids were trying to take care of themselves because they knew no one else would.

But this guy isn’t a kid. He’s a healthy, fairly strong man, even if a young one.

“Why’d you do it?” I murmur, watching him intently. It seems to take him a moment to catch what I meant, and when he does, he averts his eyes sheepishly.

“We need the money. A-and we didn’t think your Dad would really miss it, y’know?”

I do know. I know that whatever Annie made off with, we still won’t miss it, and that all the disappointment that we feel from this will come from a bruised pride, and the simple injustice of someone taking other peoples belongings. And I may not know what he needs the money for, but I know that this frightened, genuinely sorry, concerned for my health guy beneath me needs whatever is in those shitty bags more than we do. And whoever he’s rolling with, whatever he’s doing it for, _he’s_ not the guy that should be paying for the crime.

I get up off him and close my knife up before slipping it in my pocket. The idiot just stay’s lying there, not moving an inch save his surprised eyes following me.

“Can you get out of here without anyone spotting you?”

“W-what?”

“I said, can you get out of here without anyone seeing you? The cops will be here in a minute, and if they catch wind of someone leaving now, they’ll get you before you know it. If you don’t have, like, a plan, or experience, or whatever, then it might be best for you to hideout upstairs ‘til they leave.”

“Y-you’re letting me go?” He asks dumbfounded, finally moving to slowly sit up.

“Yeah, but you need to be quick about it. I won’t lie if there’s a risk I’ll get caught.” I walk to the sink and grab the towel; I’ve watched enough detective programmes to know that I need to wipe the floor of fingerprints if I want us both to get away with this.

“I…” he starts, still confused as he manages to stand up and look at me like he’s worried I’ve gone insane. He might have a right to be. “Are you sure?”

I stare at him for a second that feels too long, before I burst out laughing. What kind of burglar is this guy?

“Just hurry the fuck up you idiot!” I say through laughing, crouching down beside him to wipe the floor around where we’d been, being careful not to touch the tiny pool of blood.

“Th-thanks!” He stutters, finally kicking into gear, and he dashes for the door.


	2. Keep It Quiet

There was something wrong with Marco.

“Why the hell didn’t he press charges? Why did he just let him go?”

“ _Why_ are you complaining? Bertl, he’s just a stupid kid with more money than sense. Maybe he was up to something before they interrupted; maybe he doesn’t want Daddy Dearest finding his own shit out. Who cares? What’s important is they got out and Annie got some goods. Stop looking for more trouble.”

There were lots of things that _weren’t_ _right_ – stealing from people, lying to his family and police, being able to read a person’s behaviour solely for the purpose of knowing what valuables they’re carrying with them – but this was wrong. This was probably something to worry about.

“Reiner’s got a point. There’s no use in worrying about it now. It’s not like he can do anything. I’ve just go to lay low for a while. It could’ve been worse, and maybe it should have been, but that’s all we need to focus on. Our team’s one down for the foreseeable, but Marco can probably pick up some of the slack.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you. I can’t believe you left him, Annie.”

“What else was I meant to do? You can sprout all the Fagin shit you want Reiner, but the job needed doing. Everyone knows that’s what comes first.”

“I think you mean the Artful Dodger.”

It was a psychological condition, wasn’t it? Not Freudian, because that was about incest, and Pavlova was the one with the dogs, but there was something about victims falling in love with their captors or something, right?

Not being able to stop thinking of the guy who held a knife to your neck and spread you flat on your back was pretty much the same, wasn’t it?

“Jesus. Well, as fun as discussing the literary cornerstones and moral codes of thieves is, I’ve got an early start now I’m behind the scenes. Make sure that idiot actually does something productive.”

Marco jumped as a finger shot out and almost hit his nose. He looked up to see Annie turning around, she and her accusatory finger calmly walking out of the room, closing the door sharply behind her.

Bertl sighed and flopped down into a chair. “I guess you guys are right. But it still doesn’t make sense. He really didn’t say anything to you Marco?”

“Nope. Just told me to go, and that he didn’t want to get caught helping me.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to be responsible for sending someone to prison.” Reiner shrugged.

“But then why give Annie away. Why let Marco go, and give a vague, _incorrect_ description of him, but rat Annie out in all the possible detail he could?”

They both shrugged again, and Marco looked back down at the latest article on the _Kirsch-heist_ , the prodigal son smiling up at him from a very recent graduation picture. Marco had seen it before, had seen a _lot_ of pictures of him before, but he didn’t remember him being so attractive. Had he just not been paying enough attention before, or did having Jean thighs spread over his chest and his eyes burning with raw threat really _do_ something for him?

Not for the first time, Marco lamented over the fact life never went as simply as a badly written porno. The hot pizza delivery guy never offered him extra sausage, and Jean Kirschtein wasn’t going to teach him a lesson by pinning him to the floor and gagging him with his own mask as he fucked the repentance out of him.

Honestly, Marco wasn’t sure if he’d have been ok with the botched break-in going that way, but the idea was nice. Hot. Fucking mind-blowing-ly, relentlessly nut-busting, and in the 10 days that had passed, he’d already gotten off to that thought 7 times.

There was something very wrong with Marco.

“We have to go back.” Bertl sighed. “If we want the money before Ymir starts rising the interest, we need to do another big job, and they won’t expect us to hit the same house, not after all the hype.”

“But there’ll be news reporters everywhere.”

“It’ll blow over in a couple more days.” He said, waving Reiner’s concerns off. “The election’s in two weeks, so they’ll have to attend all the publicity fares from now ‘til then; Kirschtein can’t miss out on that, and he’ll need his family there in a show of support or whatever, especially after Dreyse announced his daughter’s engagement and that whole family spiel he gave.”

“Politics is so fucking stupid. If they put as much effort into their policies as they did their popularity poll…” Marco hummed in agreement, putting the distracting article aside and trying to refocus on Bertl and Reiner’s conversation.

“Well they don’t, and there’s nothing we can do about that. Besides, these moron have been so vocal about their new security in trying to warn us off, that we know everything about it. It won’t take Annie long to find a way ‘round it.”

“You really think we can pull that off?” Marco asked, not at all comfortable with the thought of going back.

“We don’t have a lot of other options.” Bertl shrugged, but Marco knew what lay behind his indifference.

* * *

 

It was precisely two days later when Marco found himself back in the large, landscaped garden, hiding in the dark with Reiner and waiting for Bertl to give the signal that he’d gotten in.

His heart was pounding, it always did when he’d had to jobs like these, but it seemed quicker this time; he dared to think there was a touch of excitement, of anticipation, amidst the usual nervous-scared- _guilt_ concoction he had to fight down from his acrid throat every time.

He cursed himself for being an idiot. A horny, inconsiderate idiot, who couldn’t stop thinking about fierce hazel eyes and powerful thighs long enough to, a; remember that the whole point of being here now was because Jean _wouldn’t_ be, and b; even if he was, Marco was more likely to get a bullet to the head than a heated kiss.

Before he could dwell on it any further – or wonder why he was even _dwelling_ in the first place – Reiner nudged him and started running forward, Marco hot on his heels when he caught the tail end of Bertl’s gesture.

He needed to focus. Whatever the hell was going on with him could wait ‘til the job was done – preferably until there was a psychiatrist present too – he’d already messed up for the guys once, he wouldn’t do it again.

“Remember the plan,” Bertl whispered once they’d all slid into the familiar kitchen. “I’ll take front, Reiner take back, Marco upstairs; and keep an eye out for any headlights. The charity auction won’t be starting for another hour, so we should have plenty of time, but we can’t take any chances.”

Marco nodded, hurrying on to do as told and just barely catching Reiner’s smug _‘well, you know how the saying goes Mr. Kirschtein; charity starts at home’_ as he split ways with Bertl and moved down the short corridor that lead to a wide hall and staircase, just as Annie’s plans had said.

He took his time on the steps, wary of any loose boards, and tiptoed carefully, putting as much weight onto the sturdy banister as he could. He was so nervous about watching where he placed his feet that he didn’t notice the frames hanging beside him until his other hand caught the edge of one, the gentle scrape against the wall startling him so bad he bashed his foot against the edge of the next step.

He froze, waiting to hear any consequential noises, before breathing out a curse and allowing his fretful body to relax as he turned to right the picture he knocked.

The second he saw the photo, his focus was knocked to hell.

The beam of his torch bounced off the glass badly, making the image inside difficult to see; the light tinting what was visible a bluish white. But apparently, one exceptional meeting meant Marco was able to recognise that face anywhere, and he couldn’t help staring, fascinated with the young, gangly Jean Kirschtein staring back at him.

He smiled, catching the small laugh in his hand before it left his lips, reluctant to look away from the grumpy, pimply, but oh-so-familiar face, yet eager to see what other gems hung on the wall. He didn’t dawdle – he at least had enough sense left not to do that – but he kept his torch on the wall, quickly scanning each photograph with every step he took.

Naturally there were some faces Marco didn’t recognise, but a most of them were of the three he’d had to learn, the son being the one stood out most to him, smiling so happily it was an almost bemusing distraction. He was awfully young in those pictures, but it took Marco right back to the kitchen, staring at a handsome face that was all sharp angles and delicate lines, shadowed and sharpened in the discarded beam of a torch, softened by peals of laughter and teasing eyes, his soft lips curved into a pointed smirk.

Marco shook himself, taking the next couple of step in single, quick strides, blushing more with the mortification of getting waylaid again than having those thoughts in the first place.

It was a little late for that, after all.

But thoughts of Jean wouldn’t be shaken, and Marco was naïve to think they would be; curiosity always gripped him when he was attracted to someone, steering him into embarrassing and dangerous roads, just so he could know a little more about that captivating person.

That curiosity was niggling at him with every step on the landing, every scope for a valuable, every handle turned and door opened.

Bathroom, airing cupboard-

He knew the instant he peered in - torch light kept low and away from windows - that this was Jean’s room.

The bed was more than big enough for a couple, but it was pushed against the wall, its sheets disarrayed and covered in little scraps and balls of paper, or maybe material - it was hard for Marco to make out in the light. Discarded clothes littered the floor, gadgets and screens lined the walls and tabletops, and as creepy as Marco felt for noticing, it had the distinct smell of a young man; musky and layered with half-assed attempts to cover it up.

He couldn’t have stopped himself from going in even if he wanted to.

His eyes skittered around the room, jumping from one area to the next, trying to take everything in at once. They had time, he remembered Bertl saying, but nothing was guaranteed, and he still had enough presence of mind to know he shouldn’t be spending it snooping about Jean’s room, trying to find out more about him instead of trying to find things worth Ymir’s time.

Still, he walked in, dropping his empty sack and being careful not to step on anything unnecessary, trailing his gloved fingertips over the rumpled surface of the bed, his focus shifting to the messy bedside table. That’s where you learnt the most about someone, Marco knew. It’s where they kept what they needed first thing in the morning, and where they put the last thing they were doing at night. It was evidence of a routine and a snapshot of the night before all at once, and Jean’s appeared to be full of all kinds of information.

Marco was careful to angle the light down, keeping it steady as he walked up to the solid wood. It’s surface was covered in the same screwed up balls as the bed – and really, the rest of the room – and when he finally got as close as he could, he realised they were all used tissues, balled up and tossed haphazardly. He grimaced. Not the most pleasant first impression, but it didn’t dampen his interest enough for him not to pick up the dog-eared, clearly flung book, careful to slide it from underneath the small mountain of tissues and read the back. He couldn’t help but smile; a crime novel, _Miss Smilla’s Feeling For Snow_. The book sounded silly to Marco, but he wondered if recent event had inspired it’s reading… and then felt incredibly stupid, because why would someone want to relive a robbery, and the book was about murder anyway…

He put it back in its place, picking up some of the disgusting tissues and dropping them back on top of it, wiping his gloves on his jeans as his eyes landed on a bottle.

_Perfume?_

He picked it up, turning the dark glass in his hands this way and that, recognising the brand and knowing it was clearly directed at men, but never knowing a guy who’d worn perfume before. Maybe it was aftershave? Marco wouldn’t know, all he and his friends bothered with was deodorant.

He plucked the top off with a _pop,_ pulling his mask up over his chin and nose, and eventually off as it started slipping up his head by itself. He tucked it into the neck of his jumper as his raised the golden nub to his nose, gentling inhaling the scent, smiling at the nice tones to the smell.

Before choking on it as he gasped, heart all but jumping out of his throat as the wardrobe doors opened with a bang.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Marco whirled around, his mind racing as fast as his heart - _he was dead, he was dead! What was he meant to do if he was caught?!_ – and stared agape, petrified and still coughing from the too strong, alcoholic scent irritating the back of his nose and throat. He couldn’t see the person’s face as they stumbled out of the cupboard, his torch having been dropped and rolling away, but he knew it was a man, even though his voice was peculiar, scratchy and catching on certain syllables. He didn’t know what to do. “You again?”

A flash of rolling light glinted on a short, sharp edge, and it clicked: Jean.

It didn’t make it any easier for Marco to figure out what to do, and quite frankly, it just made things worse, making his heart pick up its already dangerous pace and forcing an embarrassed flush to stain his cheeks, because of course Marco was the kind of fool who felt the shame of being caught snooping before feeling the fear of being held at knifepoint, again.

He really shouldn’t feel excited about this; he was in very real danger and putting his friends in very real danger, and _something was very wrong with him_ , because he couldn’t stop watching the way Jean’s chest heaved, his palms too sweaty and mouth too dry, and when Jean spoke, his voice made gravelly and unfairly attractive by the cold that had clearly hit him, Marco swore he felt a shiver run down his spine.

He was frightened – _so_ frightened – but so stupidly turned on.

“Why are you here again?” Jean asked, voice deep and rasping through his short breaths. “Why the- why the fuck did you come back? Didn’t you take enough the first time?”

Marco almost said no, because when backed into a corner, his first instincts were always to tell the truth, simply because pressure made him such a bad liar. But he caught Jean’s bitter and sad tone before he answered earnestly, and instead silence was all he could offer. Probably for the best, really.

“What, aren’t there any other houses you can hit?” The more Jean talked, the more evident his blocked nose was, making his tongue stumble and breath stunted on certain sounds, keeping his hoarseness just short of being hot. Marco was transfixed all the same. “Or did you think because I let you get away last time, we’d be an easy hit? ‘Cause-”

“No!” Marco was quick to intervene, though he kept his voice hushed. “W-we, we just thought you’d be out-”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” Jean snarled and took a step towards him, Marco instantly stepping backwards, the mattress’s edge hitting the back of his knee and prompting him to edge to the end of the bed.

“I-I’m being honest. You were meant to be with your Dad, at the charity thing? Why aren’t-”

“Because thanks to you, I’m fucking sick.” Bunged up though he was, the venom was still clear in his voice, though maybe it was only because of his intense glaring – looking manic in the stark, bluish light of the torch beam – that Marco felt it so keenly. “I had to wait outside for hours that night whilst the police searched for evidence.”

“I’m sorry,” Marco automatically apologised. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt, I-I didn’t mean for you to get sick.”

Jean didn’t reply, his scowl fixed and fierce, each step forward slow and controlled, the army knife held comfortably in front of him. The pointed threat of both blade and stare had Marco taking unsure steps backward, sweating buckets in panic and _something else._ He didn’t think twice in tugging off a glove and shoving it in his pocket, raising a clammy hand to wipe at his dripping brow, Jean’s focused eyes flowing his every shaking movement.

“I-I’m sorry you were at home,” he continued, “I’m sorry you were i-in your… w-wardrobe…?” He stumbled in his confusion.

“Getting whacked ‘round the head with a bat is a lesson you only need to learn once.” Jean stated, his face turning even more sour as he did so. Marco’s stomach rolled at the thought of Jean having to hide, that he may have felt as frightened and panicked as Marco did now, that maybe that was why he was breathing so unevenly.

But he didn’t look scared. He looked strong. Powerful. He looked like he had that first night, commanding control and looking at Marco with an intense heat, full of promises that Marco was sure he didn’t want to know about, but was enraptured by all the same. And if he had any consciousness left over from the utterly useless, nonsensical rambling of his panicked mind, and the constant warning signals his brain sent to every inch of his body, he’d be ashamed of the way it made heat curl in his gut.

But he didn’t. And all he could think about in that moment, with his adrenaline spiking and heart thumping, his nerves on fire and breath shortening, was how he’d imagined just this - this pressure, this fire, having Jean’s sole attention again – and all the pleasurable ways it had ended in.

The situation was unreal. _Surreal_.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Jean demanded, and snapped Marco out of his heated daze. “What are you thinking?” Marco didn’t answer, gulping down the build up of desire and fear, one of which shouldn’t even be there. “Tell me!” He hissed, and because being backed into a corner made him a bad liar, Marco blurted the truth.

“I feel like I’m in a porno.”

The silence was heavy, crushing what was left of Marco’s self-esteem, and seemingly echoing his forced wheeze.

Of all the things he could have said…

“What?” Jean chocked, and Marco thought he could burn himself to death with how hot his blush was.

“I-I just mean it’s like a p-porno, the ones w-with shit scripts and a-acting? T-those role-play ones? ‘Cause I’m, like, the b-burglar and I find you in the b-bedroom, and then I’d-”

Marco’s rambling stopped short when his saw Jean’s eyes widen, his arms rising quickly and his hands shaking violently, the grip on his knife much tighter and directed more pointedly. His fear hit Marco like a train.

“No!” He blurts, raising his own hands unthinkingly, and wincing at how loud his voice was. “I-I didn’t it mean like that!” He whispered desperately. “I would never do that. I would never. I’m so sorry I made it sound like that. Jesus, I’m such an _idiot-_ ”

“Y-you so much as move, I swear-”

“I won’t, I promise I won’t. I wouldn’t- that’s not what I meant! It’s just because there’s this tension, y’know?” He gestured between them with a hasty finger. “And you’re all hot and in control, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you making me pay for breaking in, and you fu-”

He slapped a sweaty palm to his traitorous mouth, dying of mortification and the desperate need to reassure Jean of his safety. Something in his indignity must have come through, because Jean’s threatening stance lowered, his wary face becoming questioning.

“You,” he started, but the combination of his nerves and sickness forced him to swallow and start again. He was so bunged up, and it was so unsexy, and yet… “You thought about me fucking you?”

Marco whined, but his hands dropped to his side.

“Yeah.”

“You want me to fuck you?” The surety in his eyes was coming back, that confidence, and Marco was powerless to stop his whispered response.

“Yeah.”

There was pause, thick and weighted as they watched each other. Jean’s sharp eyes roamed, taking Marco in as best he could in the light, no doubt looking for lies and threats. He wouldn’t find any, not whilst Marco was too fascinated by the way Jean’s breath was picking up again, by the way his shoulders seemed to straighten and broaden with every second that passed.

Their eyes met, and Marco’s breath caught.

“I won’t be pushed around.” Jean promised, his arms dropping slowly and his posture opening up.

“I know.” Marco breathed, not moving as Jean hesitantly dropped the knife on the end of the bed, watching Marco carefully as he stepped forward. He stayed still as Jean stepped into his space, his eyes quickly tracing over the long and handsome features of Jean’s face as he took a loose hold on Marco’s arm. His breath quickened, his heart raced, and he could practically taste the tension between before Jean spun him around with a strength Marco had only dreamed about, wringing an unexpected gasp from Marco lips.

“You’re in my territory, my house again,” he growled behind him, his skin prickling excitedly at the closeness and gruff tones. “You owe me.” He reiterated Marco’s sentiments, his slack grip on him and the strict space between them sending a clear but unvoiced question.

“I know.” Marco answered.

Jean shoved him against the wall, his chest hitting the brick sending a dull pain through his body that was easily ignored when he felt Jean’s hips press against his ass and his entire torso fit against the sharp and sudden curve of Marco’s back.

“This what you had in mind?” The deep gravel of his voice against Marco’s ear sent a violent shudder down his body, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the truth of how much this was turning him on, how much he wanted Jean to keep talking, keep pressing, keep making Marco fall apart.

Their bodies were so tight together that there was barely any movement at all to the roll of Jean’s hips, but Marco felt it. And his brain short circuited at the feeling, at the knowledge of what could happen.

He hadn’t realised that he’d pushed back against him and let out an appreciative moan until Jean growled into his ear, lips brushing against the sensitive skin in a way that was as uncomfortable as it was thrilling, and it made his body hot and ache in an ineluctable way.

“You better be careful. Don’t want your friends to know what’s happening, right? What would they think, seeing you here, hard and desperate for the man your trying to steal from? They think they’re in control don’t they? How embarrassing if they found out the truth.”

Marco’s cheeks were burning, and part of him wanted to argue back, but the weakness in his knees and the heat in his stomach that strengthened with every word wouldn’t be ignored. And he wanted to hear more. Wanted to feel more when a hand sneaked down and round to his front, palming at the growing bulge in his black jeans, squeezing as harshly as possible through the tough denim when Marco bucked into him.

“You think you know what you’re doing. You think you can walk in here and take what you want. You think it’s going as you planned. But look at you. Weak for me. I can do whatever the fuck I like to you, and you can’t do anything about it. Youdon’t _want_ to do anything about it.”

Another sharp squeeze, and then he was hastily tugging at the button, yanking the zip down and shoving his hand inside Marco’s boxers, instantly pulling at his cock; Marco had to bite his own forearm to muffle the embarrassing shrieks it brought out of him.

His body trembled, and he knew Jean had to be able to feel it, pressed into his body like he was. The bite and hum into his neck confirmed it, and then his hands were moving to peal Marco’s jeans down, over his ass and cutting into his thighs slightly as the soft cotton of Jean’s clothed hips were pushing his bare ass again, and _Jesus_ , Marco could feel the hard and throbbing heat through them.

“Fuck, you’ve got a nice ass.” Jean tugged at Marco’s cock again, and he could do nothing about the way he rubbed back against the hardness pressing into him with every slide up. “I’m gonna fuck it so hard you’ll be feeling me for weeks.” Marco whimpered, leaning into the lips whispering against his ear. “ You’ll never be able to forget this. Me. How powerless you are.”

Marco gasped as a sudden coldness surrounded him, and he mindlessly pushed forward and back, trying to find a trace of Jean’s body where it was engulfing him a second ago. For the first time, he looked behind him to see Jean over by the bedside table, tossing things around until he grabbed a half-full bottle of lube, and rushed back to Marco.

He didn’t let it show, but Marco was pretty amused at how flustered and desperate Jean was. He talked big, but Marco had seen the fierce blush across his cheeks, saw the little hurried steps he took to return. A sharp slap on his ass and harsh tug on his hair banished the thought quickly though, and he was pushed back into the wall, head forced to face in front of him, and he keened at the bite Jean sucked into his bared neck.

“I didn’t say you could move.”

There was the jolting _clack_ of the bottle cap before Marco felt slick fingers sliding surprisingly slowly down the crack of his ass and rub the tight ring. They both moaned as Marco pushed into the feeling, Jean keeping his lips against his neck, leaving a trail of bruises up to his ear.

“What’s your name?”

Marco huffed, tensing slightly as a single finger started to push into him.

“Like I’m gonna tell you that.”

It retreated slowly, pushing in a little quicker, but still only the tip.

“Ooh? Why not?”

A little deeper this time, but Marco could feel how tight he was around it. He rued the fact he’d not fingered himself in the last few days, chastising how he’d settled for quick jerks in the shower, when he couldn’t pull his hand out of his ass for the majority of last week thinking about his very situation.

Irony could be cruel.

“You think I’m that stupid? Only an idiot would tell the guy he’s robbing any details.”

There was a deep, throaty chuckle as Jean worked his finger in to the hilt, slowly rotating it, but not pulling away.

“I wonder what _Annie_ would think, if she heard you say that.” Marco’s face burned as Jean placed a gentle kiss to his cheek, less an affectionate gesture, and more of a reminder of how Marco had thrown aside any and all anonymity along with his disguise the last time they had met. “I have your fingerprints, a _very_ detailed picture of your face and body, and my finger in your ass.” He curled said finger and rubbed back and forth over the tight bundle of nerves effortlessly, making Marco gasp and his legs shake. “What’s a name amongst all that? C’mon, don’t you want to hear me say it?”

He did. _Fuck_ , he did. He wanted it growled into his ear, he wanted it echoing around the room as Jean panted through the final stretch to coming. He wanted Jean to know it, gasp it as he came into his own hand tomorrow, and the next day, and the next week, month, thinking of how he’d spread Marco open and fucked him into the wall.

A stronger push into that spot, and Marco caved.

“M-Marco.” He breathed, the last remaining sense he had praying it was too soft for Jean to hear.

“Marco, huh?” A shiver went down his spine.

Jean slowly withdrew his finger and started to push another back in with it. Marco gasped but tried to keep his body relaxed, which wasn’t so easy with the tension and constant knowledge that Reiner and Bertl were just downstairs and could come looking for him any moment. The adrenaline of the risk made him drip with pre-cum, but the very real possibility kept him on edge the whole time, and it was a struggle to get himself to relax as much he wanted, _needed_ to.

“Fuck,” Jean hissed, trying to wiggle his fingers in gently before a muffled _bang_ from downstairs made them jump. “We don’t have time for this. It’ll take too long.” Marco whined as he removed his second finger and kept pushing in with just the one. “Fuck porn for being so unrealistic.”

Marco choked on a laugh, his back bowing naturally to try and get that finger deeper. “Yeah, it’s just the preparation. The huge dongs and cumshots are perfectly reasonable.”

“Maybe they are.” The husk in his voice rumbled all the way down Marco’s body from his ear, and he shivered as Jean pushed his hips firmly into him. His goddamn mouth _watered_ at the implication, and he didn’t know if he wanted to pinned to the wall or forced to his knees more.

He whined embarrassingly as Jean pulled away, only to moan when he felt his bare, hard cock press flat against his skin and slid between the full cheeks of his ass. Jean yanked harshly at his hips, positioning Marco just how he wanted him; ass out, legs spread as far as his biting jeans would allow, and he pushed on his shoulders ‘til Marco’s cheek was flat against the wall.

“That’s it, Marco.” He husked, completely enveloping him, arms wrapping around him and pulling Marco’s body flush against his; Marco’s ass pressing against the insides of his hips and around his cock. “Just like this.” He leant further forward, causing Marco’s back to arch even more, and gripped Marco’s cock with one hand as the other brushed over his tight balls and pressed a finger back into him.

Marco gasped at the feeling of being completely covered, of being overpowered and having every inch of his skin stimulated. The angle was a little difficult, but it was worth the bit of shuffling to feel Jean rutting between his ass, thrusting into him, and fisting his cock with a disorientating, _glorious_ pace.

“Yeah,” Jean growled into the curve of Marco’s neck. “I’m gonna fuck you just like this.” He couldn’t pull far away from Marco’s body without disrupting his flow, but his hips rolled and snapped against him quickly, the drag and push of the head of his cock felt with a kind of filthy clarity by Marco, and it made his muscles twitch around Jean’s finger that rubbed over that spot with every thrust.

Marco wasn’t going to last. And judging by the increasing slickness between his cheeks, Jean wasn’t going to either.

“Please,” he heard himself beg, but Marco wasn’t sure what for. “ _Please._ ”

“You’re desperate for me, huh Marco? You want me to fuck you so bad.” Marco whimpered as Jean started moving a little faster, a little harder. “Say it.”

Marco simply keened and pushed back and down onto Jean’s cock and finger.

“ _Say it._ ” He gasped as Jean’s fist squeezed around his cock and his finger pressed into his prostate harshly.

And the words just came tumbling out.

“I want you to fuck me.” He whispered desperately. “I want you to fuck me so hard Jean.”

He grunted and his hips stuttered as he instantly pulled Marco tighter against him. He hadn’t even noticed the other finger before, but Marco sure as hell felt it when it was pushed in roughly with the next thrust. He threw his head back moaned at the burn, cock jerking at feeling as he _relished_ the ache. He wanted to feel that slight pain, wanted to remember what it felt like to have Jean’s fingers inside him, wanted to be reminded of what he’d done, how he’d been controlled, when he went to bed tonight.

“That’s right, Marco. Look at how your tight ass is pulling my fingers in. Look at how wet you are for me.” He swiped his thumb over the dripping head of his cock, and Marco choked on his stuttered breath.

“Yes.” He hissed. “Want you so bad Jean.”

Jean hummed, both his hand’s yanking back and forth quickly, bringing Marco closer and closer with every push and slide. The pressure was building fast, the heat becoming unbearable.

“I’m coming.” He mumbled, brow furrowing as he tried to stave off the inevitable. “I’m coming.” And he was going to come _hard_.

“You gonna come for me?”

“Jean.”

“You gonna shoot your load all over my fucking wall Marco?”

“ _Jean_.” He didn’t think it was possible, but Jean’s hands moved faster, harder, his hips and cock dragging and bumping against his ass harshly. He was right there, _right there_.

“That’s it Marco. Come for me. _Come for me_.”

Jean pulled his hand away at the last second, and Marco cried out at the loss as he came anyway, shooting streaks of white across his body and the wall in front. His body trembled as wave after wave of pleasure hit him, and the effort to keep standing was almost too much, may have very well been if Jean hadn’t still had his fingers buried inside him and his free arm wrapped around Marco’s stomach, pulling him tight against him as he kept thrusting against his ass.

A strained _Marco_ rasped into his ear was the only warning he got, before a sticky wetness coated the small of his back the top of his cheeks, stuttered thrusts spreading it all down his crack, and though Marco knew he was going to find it gross later, in that moment it was unfathomably hot, and he groaned against the wall as he continued to shiver and feel Jean coat his ass in his come.

A hushed call from downstairs brought them to their senses quickly, and they hurriedly pulled their pants up, and away from each other. When what happened finally dawned on Marco, he blanched and wondered what he was meant to do. Thankfully, Jean somehow managed to sidestep the awkwardness.

“If I was you, I wouldn’t try taking anything from up here, _Marco_.” He threatened quietly, and Marco cursed himself for _actually_ telling Jean his name. He’d question what the fuck he’d been thinking, but he already knew he hadn’t been thinking at all. “And I think it’s probably for the best that you leave now, don’t you? Police could turn up any minute.”

Although part of Marco felt like Jean wouldn’t do anything - that if he hadn’t handed Marco over yet, he wasn’t going to now - he took the thinly veiled threat at face value, and hurried over to the door, snatching up his abandoned bag as he went. Whatever assumptions and theories he and the others came up with, Marco vividly remembered that lethal glint in Jean’s eyes as he pressed a knife into his skin, and he knew it was perfectly genuine at the time.

It wasn’t a good idea to push Jean too far.

He walked out the room without saying a word, and made his way downstairs to see a perplexed Reiner waiting for him at the bottom.

“We should go.” Marco said before he could be questioned about his whereabouts, and why he came back empty handed when he’d been gone so long. “I think I can hear sirens in the distance. We shouldn’t stick around to find out.”

Reiner cursed and rushed down the hall to the room Bertl was still pulling things from. “We need to get going anyway. We’ve been here a while.”

As he disappeared, Marco picked up the filled bags Reiner had dropped by their feet, and tossed them over his back. He cursed as he almost forgot to put his mask back on, _again_.

“Did you get anything from upstairs?” Bertl asked as they all made their way to the kitchen exit. Marco shook his head.

“Nothing valuable that couldn’t be tracked.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’ve probably got more than enough.” Bertl continued, before giving him a side-glance. “You were gone a while though.”

Marco shrugged and reiterated the same lie he’d told his mother countless times when she asked why he’d spent so long ‘at the library’.

“Was doing a bit of investigating. Seeing if I could get some _valuable_ information.”

“Yeah?” Reiner smiled. “Find anything?”

Marco rubbed at the back of his bruised neck, glancing up at the mansion before hoping over the hedge after Bertl.

“Maybe.”


End file.
